


Game of Thorns

by TheStraggletag



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones AU, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2016, rss 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag
Summary: When one plays the long game one must avoid distractions. And Isobel Tully was the biggest distraction of all. Rumbelle Game of Thrones AU





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tinuviel_Undomiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinuviel_Undomiel/gifts).



 

Playing the long game required a patience that Rumplestiltskin feared sometimes he did not possess. Every day that passed he grew more tired of it all. It was exhausting simply to be in King's Landing, let alone covertly playing the game of thrones. Over the years he'd perfected the art of being as invisible as possible, even when in plain sight. With his expensive, silken robes, long hair and extravagant mannerisms he was effeminate enough to be dismissed as a potential danger by most men in Westeros, for whom power meant wielding a great sword and making a loud show of their masculinity. It wasn't enough to fool the truly insightful, like the obnoxious Littlefinger or even her Majesty the Queen, but it served him well nevertheless. The greyscale was another blessing, ironically. Few dared make eye-contact and stare at his scaly, unnatural skin, and the forced limp that his fully-petrified right ankle forced him into made people see him as weak. The Crocodile, they called him behind his back. More creature than man, a useful aberration.

Then there was the issue of his castration. The idea had blossomed in his mind while he made the pitiful journey from Essos to Westeros, the death of his Baelfire still fresh in his mind and his body still weakened from the treatments that had stopped the greyscale from advancing. He'd heard enough horror stories about emasculated slaves growing up in Myr. It had been only too easy to spread the rumour of his childhood mutilation, and in had had the desired effect in the eyes of the court. King Robert had all but laughed in his face and called him a titless woman once he'd taken the throne.

Having to win the loyalty of someone such as him had been a necessary evil. Some days it had felt better than being in the shadow of the Mad King, whose mercurial temperament he'd barely survived. King Robert, by comparison, had been easier. Dumb as they came, his one true talent splitting sharper heads open with his Warhammer. He'd seen him deteriorate, grow fat and bored, the light going out of his eyes as he whored around and went hunting in an effort to find some enjoyment in life. Robert had been tedious and unpalatable, but he'd been easy to manipulate and to hide things from, and his years in the throne had given Rumplestiltskin time to set some pieces on the board and some plays in motion.

Those had been slow years, filled with nothing but the tormenting memories of the past. The glint of avarice in his father's eyes as he'd haggled with a slave-trader in exchange for his own son. The contempt in Milah's face as he refused to follow along with her plan to try and escape to freedom, determined to buy it instead. The mutilated body of his baby boy, his wee bairn, and the sorcerer throwing his intestines into the fire. A voice coming out of the blue embers, hissing and sibilant. The warmth of the sorcerer's blood as it dripped down his hands, doing nothing to chase the emptiness inside him away.

Petty revenge hadn't been enough, not by a long shot. It had given him his freedom, and Baelfire's remains to properly bury, but it had been nowhere near enough. The notion that there was something else he was meant to do, something to further honour the memory of his dead child, had kept him alive, had given him the will to survive by whatever means possible. Thieving and lying had become second nature, and it had been in those first days that he'd realised his greyscale acted often as a protective cloak, discouraging people from touching him or getting too close. The illness had been slow-acting, a minor blessing, but it had taken him months to find someone able and willing to save his life. By that time his right ankle had been a lost cause, and most of the right side of his body had succumbed to the disease, as had his right eye.

As painful as the treatment for the greyscale had been it had paled in comparison to the aimlessness that struck him afterwards. He stole to survive, but to live to see another day wasn't enough. It had taken him months of leaving in the streets, slowly recovering his senses, for the ghosts of Baelfire appear. His nose in a young slave's face, his curly hair atop another's. His sweet, guileless eyes looking at him from the dirty, emaciated face of a street rat. With time he'd come to the conclusion that though he might have failed to save his child he could save others. And for that he'd need power, but not the blunt, obvious kind. He'd never been good with it anyway. But information... that he could use. So that's what he'd stolen, and it had taken years to amass enough to buy himself a place at court in Westeros. That was, after all, his birth place, and where he'd dreamed of taking Baelfire.

He'd grown his hair long and swathed his body in rich silks of traditionally-feminine colours, using foreign prints and adornments to mark himself as a foreigner, and as such always at risk of falling out of favour and disappearing into the mist. He'd developed effeminate, impish mannerisms, almost caricaturesque, and had grown his hair long, braiding locks of it and adorning it with foreign beads and charms. The long sleeves of his robes hid a dagger he always kept strapped to his left forearm and the bulk of the fabric helped hide the slightly-muscled leanness of him, giving him a softer, more foppish look.

He'd caught the eye of few men playing the game over the years, which he considered a resounding success. The Baratheons barely acknowledged his existence, which had worked greatly in his favour. It had helped him arrange for the Targaryen children to find refuge in Pentos, and to keep an eye on them discreetly from afar. The Lannisters didn't much register him either. Lord Tywin had a healthy sort of respect for him and his skill as Master of Whispers, but no outright fear. Cersei, on the other hand, thought him nothing more than a useful pawn. He thought the same of her, though there was a glint of madness about her eyes sometimes that bothered him.

Though he hated King's Landing with a passion and the courtly facade he was forced to wear daily he'd learned to master the world below the Red Keep, the labyrinth of passages and hidden rooms that stretched out into the city itself. With the demise of the Mad King most of the passages had been forgotten. Robert Baratheon hadn't cared much for exploring the capital other than its brothels and its taverns, so he'd quietly but surely made the underground tunnels and structures his own private domain. Grand Maester Pycelle, thankfully, preferred the comforts of his rooms above, and the privacy they afforded him when he wanted to... satisfy his appetites.

He had instructed his little birds how to wander through the passages, how to sneak into the very walls of the keep without making a sound. And he'd taught them how to read so they could glean secrets from letters, raven's messages and whatever other scrap of paper they managed to find. And in exchange he cared for them, orphaned and unwanted as they were, each one bearing a distinctive feature that in some way reminded him of his own sweet boy. He provided them with safe nooks in which to sleep and clothes to wear and protected them for anyone who dared do them harm. He'd dispatched of more than one child rapist over the years, a quick flick of his dagger in a dark alley, riffling through the corpse's pockets to make it look like a mugging. It had started as a practical transaction but over time he'd grown attached to his little birds and them to him. To see them move around the city, invisible to the people that passed them by, reminded him of himself, his own childhood and demons.

Little by little he'd moved the pieces across the board. He'd stored secrets away, hundreds of them, to be used when the time came. He'd orchestrated the death of some men but simply watched others die. He'd regretted Jon Arryn's demise, and found himself inexplicably affected by the beheading of Lord Stark. He'd been the sort of guileless, brutish lord he'd never quite understood, who had honour but no brains to temper it with. It had fascinated him, Stark's apparent stupidity, his inexplicable kindness towards Queen Cersei, especially after killing two of his once close friends. In the end he hadn't seen a way to help him without it leading back to him so he'd done nothing. Thankfully the young Stark he'd left behind had learned a thing or two and had somehow, by a combination of sheer will, learning experience and dumb luck, managed to remain alive.

He hadn't seen the Tyrells coming. Knowing what his little birds had told him about Lady Olenna he'd wagered they'd stay out of the fray long enough for her to distinguish and back the clear winner of the game of thrones. But he hadn't counted on Maergery Tyrell and her queenly ambitions, and had paid the price for it. Littlefinger had, in that sense, been smarter, had seen the girl coming a mile away. Had known her enough to realize the death of Renly wouldn't send her back to Highgarden to lick her wounds while her grandmother smoothed things over to make the Tyrells a neutral party again, instead of a house who'd backed the first loser of the War of the Five Kings.

Learning from his mistake he'd instructed his little birds to fly close to the Tyrell party and learn of their little secrets. There was little he didn't already know about the matron of the house, the infamous Queen of Thorns. His birds told him of her sharp tongue and suspicious nature, all things she was already famous for, and her love cheese. They also told him about Maergery, the queen to be, and her apparent interest in charity work and her escapades outside the safety of the Red Keep and how she was slowly winning the love of the people and the interest of King Joffrey. They spoke of the lady's Redwyne cousins, Megga, Alla and Elinor, daughters of Lady Viola's only son. Though the three shadowed her often they did not share any special closeness to her. Lady Maergery's closest relation, other than her grandmother, was her cousin Isobel.

He'd thought it bold, the Lady Olenna bringing her little fish of a granddaughter to the lion's den. It was a good stance, he knew. Flaunting her instead of hiding her, making it clear the Tyrells didn't think they needed to hide her. His birds told him of the reluctance of Mace Tyrell, that oaf of a man, to have the red-headed Tully out in the open, serving as a companion for her daughter. The Lady Olenna, with her usual no-nonsense attitude, had made it clear to her son that she was to be part of her entourage and there was no arguing with her. So what if her father had been a Tully? She'd barely known that side of her family, had no association with them whatsoever.

"This is my granddaughter, Mace. She is the only child of my youngest, who the gods saw fit to take in the prime of her life. She'd been raised by us from infancy. She took her first steps beside me in my gardens, shared tutors with your own children and has sown Tyrell roses into countless useless handkerchiefs. She's a Tyrell and that's the end of that."

She said it so lightly, as if it was that simple. But the Master of Whispers knew better. Knew that her grandmother's cunning and power as the unofficial head of House Tyrell could only protect a Tully so far in King's Landing. Perhaps if she didn't have the distinctive Tully-red hair, a very particular shade of brown-tinted red, things would be easier, even if there was no concealing her house name when introducing herself. And, as he had learned, the chit had really grown up in Highgarden, raised to be a proper rose. Her mother, Miranda Tyrell, had openly been Lady Olenna's favourite child, which helped explain why, when fever had taken her away, the Queen of Thorns had seemingly spirited her grandchild away from a grieving father to be raised by her side.

The Master of Whispers was not quite sure how wise it had been to bring the Tully girl along, though he could understand Lady Olenna's reasoning. Hiding the girl in plain sight was smart, as it was to show her close to Lady Maergery. As far as his little birds could tell their closeness and camaraderie seemed genuine, which would also help explain the Tully girl's presence in King's Landing. Her room was full of books and vials of perfumes and essences, herbal remedies and the like. It was a well-known fact Isobel Tully was proficient in the art of making salves, creams and tonics. Like a true Tyrell she downplayed her ability, though Rumplestiltskin had suspicions about what she created beyond harmless scents and helpful remedies.

He met her briefly when he sought her grandmother out. Though Littlefinger had beat him to the punch when it came to House Tyrell he was determined to see if he could make an ally out of the house yet. Lady Olenna, hiding behind her tart tongue and her careless attitude, as if the world held no worries for her, was shrewd and open to his approach and words of warning. And throughout their conversation she'd kept her granddaughter close. That, above all, had told him that the girl was trusted, not just loved. She was, up close, a thing of beauty. Her red hair and bright blue eyes spoke of her father's blood but her delicate complexion, grace and bone structure marked her as a rose of Highgarden. She'd kept her head lowered as she shadowed her grandmother's footsteps, pretending to be lost in the wonders of the gardens. In reality he was sure she'd not missed a word of their conversation.

It wasn't until he caught one of his little birds with a luridly-coloured ball of candy that she thought about the Tully girl again. He found the wee girl licking the confection, a rather eye-catching shade of red, her fingers sticky with syrup. He recognised her as a bird he'd assigned to spy on the Tyrell girls. Though unwilling at first she'd confessed to finding a plethora of candy everywhere in Lady Isobel's private quarters. Laid out in dishes, hidden inside drawers and in little nooks and crannies that she dutifully canvassed every time she snuck into the room.

"She leaves them for me, M'Lord. I like strawberry and apple, so she now puts out mostly strawberry and apple caramel. When she saw I wouldn't eat the marzipan she stopped putting it out."

No one had tried to bribe his little birds before. There were people who rather suspected and even accepted, that there was no room in King's Landing they didn't have access to, somehow. But no one had before thought to leave sweets for his birds and the cunning ploy left him grudgingly impressed. Clearly there was more of Lady Isobel than met the eye. He began to look for her when he attended feasts and such in the Keep. She wore the simply, revealing gowns of all the Tyrell ladies, flirty and new and enticing, completely at odds with the more formal style made so popular by Queen Cersei. Less revealing than her cousin, either by choice or to prevent the eye of the king from wandering, usually adorned by a sash or belt of thorns and roses and gossamer skirts which moved becomingly as she walked. She stayed safely away from the Tully blue, picking instead shades of golden brown, pale blue and green. She dressed to blend in with the rest of her cousin's or her grandmother's entourage, but a closer look revealed small, personal touches, a glimpse into her personality.

Most of the time, however, she seemed to be missing in action. Whenever he caught sight of her she was either with her grandmother or her cousin, usually embroidering in the garden. Though Lady Maergery sought the company of the Stark girl often Lady Isobel, according to his little birds, was never with them. Clever girl, to think it unwise for two Tully red-heads to be seen together. She was also, surprisingly, sometimes seen in Tyrion Lannister's company, on the rare occasions when he was sober and far from the other Lannisters, usually shadowed by his squire, the Payne boy, and the sellsword he'd acquired as a protector of sorts. She was safe from king and queen with them too, neither Cersei nor Joffrey liked the imp much. The little fish was, indeed, cleverer than he'd given her credit for.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn't expect her to find the library, not even after his little birds told him of the piles of books in the room she shared with her cousin. After all it was part of the tunnels that had been forgotten, the hidden legacy of the Targaryens. Jaehaerys the Wise had added the library to the labyrinth of passages, setting it beneath the Great Hall. Well-placed sun-windows and mirrors kept it illuminated by day, since the king had forbidden the use of fire anywhere near the old tomes. Reading nooks had been carved into the stone of the large chamber and it had been in one of those that he'd found her, tucked away like a small dragon in its cave, piles of books surrounding her. The little bird who he had caught eating the Tully girl's sweets sat at her feet, a smaller book in her hands. Her loyalties, it seemed, had been well and truly compromised.

He saw her again in the library during the following days. Almost always accompanied by the straw-headed child she'd so enchanted and sometimes covertly watched by other birds fluttering in her vicinity, skittish but intrigued. She kept bringing food with her, tarts and berries and exquisite-looking tea-cakes, a veritable display of what made Tyrells so powerful. Every now and then a little bird would swoop in, running silently like only they could, and sneak a treat out of a plate before retreating further away to eat. Lady Isobel pretended not to notice but her lips, he saw, curled into a smile whenever it happened.

It was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous in King's Landing, but he couldn't help himself. Reading people, understanding them in profound ways, was his specialty, what kept him alive and what made him dangerous. But the Tully girl was a difficult mystery to uncover. Not some silly noblewoman, like he'd thought at first, who'd leave the capital in tears, hiding behind her grandmother's imposing figure. Not anxious to grasp onto power, given how she'd befriended the Lannister least beloved by the crown, never mind his own father. Cunning to anticipate and evade his spies, but genuine enough to be prone to small acts of kindness towards them.

Though he decided the wisest thing would be to avoid the library for the foreseeable future somehow he often found his steps leading him there at least once every afternoon. He'd never let himself be known, though his little birds knew he was there. Some, at first, ran away when they noticed he was about, fearful of being reprimanded for flocking towards the lady and her alluring sweets. But after a while they stopped, seeing how those who remained were not punished. They seemed to arrange themselves then into a schedule. Those who were not out fleeting about the streets collecting his secrets, listening in on conversations inside the keep, or skilfully rummaging through people's belongings in search of bits and pieces that could serve him well gathered around the lady, some closer and others further away, ready to a possible retreat should they need it.

He'd thought her completely clueless regarding his presence until one of his little birds brought him an offering of almond and honey cake, something he had a particular weakness too. It was far from the peasant fare he'd been used to most of his life, a luxury he indulged in whenever possible.

"Lady says you always come but never eat."

And with that unceremonious statement he realised she'd likely always known he was there, watching. It was an unpleasant experience, for someone used to being a spider on the wall, unseen and unnoticed, to find himself not as hidden as he'd hoped. Determined to re-gain a bit of footing he came out of the shadows, bowing to her before pretending to be searching for a particular manuscript among the neighbouring stacks. Though he itched to ask her how she'd found the library and how much of the rest of the tunnels she'd explored he refrained, determined to pretend it was completely normal to find a visitor in what he considered his sole domain.

With that purpose he made a point of engaging her in conversation at least once a day in the library. It only reinforced his early assessment that Isobel Tully was a very interesting woman and for some reason incredibly dangerous for him. She had a way of engaging him in conversation, of plucking words out of him like he was a finely-tuned instrument she excelled at. It didn't seem to serve any sort of nefarious purpose but it unnerved him deeply all the same, especially because of how he was beginning to grow soft and vulnerable around her, completely against his will. If he didn't know any better he'd have thought it witchcraft, some dark art from a lost city in Essos.

He told himself often enough that there was a simple enough remedy. His time in King's Landing was drawing to a close. It was only a matter of time till circumstances forced him outside Westeros, to finally meet the Mother of Dragons and see for himself the fruit of his efforts, the hope his plans rested upon. It was simply a matter of avoiding the Tully girl till such a time came.            And yet every few days his resolve would crack and his feet would take him to the library where Lady Isobel held court over whatever little birds were not on duty. The naked adoration in their eyes, the intent and reverent way in which they watched her, resonated strangely with him, as if he too understood what it was to be hungry for her. It was an almost foreign feeling for him. For years he'd been numb to most things. He'd thought only of his boy and the plan he'd built around his memory; the legacy he'd leave in place of the one that had been stolen from him. But now he thought of Lady Isobel too. Of her red hair and how it shone when the light hit it just so, and her odd sense of humour. Her pale arms and legs, barely hidden by her gossamer skirts and the pretty curve of her lips. And things that had laid dormant stirred to life again, much to his chagrin. Cold baths helped, since they tended to irritate the scaly half of his body. The discomfort centred him, kept his body under his control.

He'd sit with her sometimes, telling himself that he did so to try and cajole information out of her. The Tyrells were a wild card as far as he was concerned. Lady Maergery may seem determined to bind her fate to that of the Lannisters in order to reach the throne but Lady Olenna did not seem as keen. If he could flip the Tyrells to stand behind Daenerys Targaryen when the time came it would be ideal. Highgarden had great bannermen under their command but it was their food that he was particularly interested in, their wheat and fruit. Lady Isobel was cautious but enjoyed talking about her grandmother. There was obvious love and affection in her voice when she did.

"I have it understood that your grandmother was set to marry a Targaryen. Though I have no doubt your grandfather was a righteous and noble man Luthor Tyrell was no one compared to a Targaryen. What motivated your grandmother to arrange for such a deviation?"

"My grandmother used to tell me about the Targaryens. About Aerys II, the Mad King, and the oddness of the clan. Too much inbreeding, she said, had spread the disease around the family tree till it was rotten to the core. Whatever spark of the divine there had been had long gone by the time Daeron Targaryen was chosen for her. Their sanity, she said, went extinct around the same time dragons did."

"Haven't you hear, my Lady? Dragons, it appears, roam the earth once more."

"I wonder if it means that Daenerys Stormborn could be like the Targaryens of old, then. But I suppose you'd know more about that than I, my Lord."

It was a gentle tug-o-war the one they engaged in, pushing and probing without any real malice behind it. It was a strange relationship, one built in the shadows, unseen by most. Only Tyrion Lannister seemed to know, or at least hint at it. He'd ask him about whether he "enjoyed fish" and seemed never to run out of fish-related innuendo, most of it disgustingly tawdry. His sellsword guard would snicker every time, prompting him to want to lash out for some reason. Lannister's squire, however, would seldom understand.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a strange sort of companionship the one that he was beginning to share with Lady Isobel. Unwilling, unwanted and yet strangely necessary to him, like breathing. It did not matter if the girl's purpose was simply to pass the time as she hid from the lions of the Red Keep, to cajole stories from the faraway land of Essos from him. He left much unsaid but often sat down with her to tell her of the Dothraki hoards and the courtesans of Braavos, the volcanoes of the Smoking Sea and the legends about the inhabitants of the Cannibal Sands. She'd hang onto his every word, her gossamer skirts spread around her, her hands idly combing a little bird's hair or healing a wound. She had a seemingly never-ending supply of creams and ointments for small cuts, fevers and other ailments. They always smelled of mint, lavender, or lilies. The children loved the different scents and he'd caught more than one of them feigning an upset stomach or a head pain in order to get a certain lotion applied. They were smart enough to mask the scent later on, when they needed to mix themselves with their surroundings once more. The most daring of his children often sat on her lap and had their hair oiled and braided. It didn't seem to matter how grimy and full of lice their hair may be, Lady Isobel had no problems touching it, showed no revulsion at all.

She shared about herself as well, mostly amusing anecdotes starring the Lady Olenna and her sharp tongue. She told of her mother, who had been sweetness personified, a woman of compassion and kindness.

"I try to be like her, but I'm afraid there's too much of my grandmother in me."

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she was the embodiment of light itself. Though cunning Lady Isobel was goodness personified, the sort of person he'd almost told himself did not exist at all. And it was nice to bask in her purity, to allow himself to rest by her side for a while, free from the intrigues of the court and the ugliness of the world.

 

* * *

 

 

Littlefinger. His scrawling penmanship, his insufferable whiff of spiced cologne and smugness clinging to the paper. The little bird who delivered it, older than usual, soon to leave his service by the looks of it, waited patiently to see what he'd do. And though he wanted nothing more than to crumple up the note and pretend he'd never laid eyes on it he did no such thing.

"Take me to where they are."

The boy scampered off, manoeuvring through the passages like they were second nature to him. He led his master to the entrance to the Godswood, where no birds of him could enter, and left. He snuck in himself, the trees and shrubbery providing adequate coverage. It didn't take him long to find Lady Olenna, fan on one hand as she conversed with Baelish. Isobel, ever the faithful shadow for meetings such as that one, lingered a bit behind them until Baelish called her over and slipped something into her hand, leaning close to whisper into her ear.

He'd been played for a fool. It all made sense now. Baelish was the only other person who was aware of the tunnels. All the pieces fit perfectly. Lady Olenna had only pretended to listen to his warnings about Littlefinger and try to arrange for a wedding between the Stark girl and her grandson Loras. And Isobel had been sent underground to be his pretty little distraction. To engage him in conversation, put him at ease, perhaps even ferret out some information out of him. And he'd fallen for it. He'd put his mission at risk. He'd taken his attention away from his son's memory for a second and he'd almost paid the price for it.

He compensated his faithful little bird well for his findings, and made it clear to the rest of his flock that the Lady Isobel was not to be approached anymore. And in a fit of spite he sealed the entrances to the library. It made most trips through the tunnels unnecessarily longer, but it gave him a twisted sort of satisfaction. As it did ignoring her when she tried to seek him out. And if his determination wavered the thought of Littlefinger's smug grin at having bested him strengthened his resolve again.

It wasn't enough, though. By the time his little birds caught the traitor in their midst the damage was done. The wedding and the subsequent death of King Joffrey had occupied his thoughts so thoroughly- damningly his eyes had strayed to Lady Isobel often, resplendent as she was in a more formal gown of gold and russet tones, a golden rose pinning her hair away from her face- that he had let his guard down. It hadn't taken much. A bit of powder sprinkled in his bath and by the time the scales on his right side began to burn the damage was done. He'd heard of it, of an old concoction invented in Essos to ward of the Stone men, harmless to healthy people but a veritable torment to those with the petrified skin of greyscale. It wasn't an attempt on his life, Littlefinger was not stupid enough to try to pull that off, but rather a new diversion. As he lay in his feathered bed, feeling as if half of him had been flayed alive, a little bird told him Baelish absconded with Sansa Stark, had secreted her out of King's Landing in the confusion that followed Joffrey's poisoning and his uncle's immediate arrest.

It was clever and he grudgingly admitted it so even as his voice grew hoarse from screaming and minutes blurred into hours. As he flickered in and out of consciousness he sensed his little birds fluttering about him, whispering amongst each other. Then there were hands dragging him to the floor, tearing at his clothing.

"Take him to the bath and then go strip the bed. I've brought new linens in case his have also been tampered with."

He flinched when he hit the water, the memory of the last bath still agonizingly fresh in his memory. But this water was warm and scented, the smell of vervain heavy in the air. It was strangely soothing, as were the hands that held his head, brushing the hair away from his face.

"It's alright. I've got you. You'll be better in no time."

He didn't recall how much time passed. Sometimes he was in the bath and other times he was in bed. Every once in a while someone gave him something to drink. But he was alone when he jolted awake with a level of awareness he hadn't had since the pain had started. As he tried to move he felt the scaly half of his body lock in place, as if the skin had fully turned into stone. Panicking he struggled to sit up, but it was impossible.

"Lower him to the ground, it'll be more comfortable there."

Little hands grasped the edges of the sheet beneath him and pulled, slowly manoeuvring him to the floor. His little birds scampered away after that, though a slow and painful turn of the head revealed Lady Isobel on the floor too, a mere few feet away from him. The straw-headed child she so favoured was with her, helping her crush some leaves on a mortar, a look of utter concentration on her dirty little face.

"That's wonderful. Now take the basket I brought to the others. There are some treats from the kitchen in there for you. There's a good girl."

He closed his eyes briefly, his mind still a big foggy from the pain, and when he opened them again she was beside him, a stone bowl full of a creamy paste by her side.

"I'm sorry about this but there's no other way to treat this that I know. This works wonders on Lady Shireen; it should do the same for you."

Incredulous he watched her coat her hands with the paste and then attempt to touch his face. Sheer surprise had him rearing back without thinking. Nobody had touched him in years, not since he'd completed treatment for his greyscale. Above him Lady Isobel waited patiently, hands outstretched towards him but making no move to get closer, simply waiting. She was dressed more plainly than he'd ever seen her, with her hair braided to keep it out of her face. And though he lay vulnerable beside her she made no move to take advantage. Taking a deep breath, he nodded, or tried as much and closed his eyes to relish the feeling of small, slender fingers moving over his petrified right cheek. The paste was pleasantly cool, though he could still detect the warmth of Isobel's skin beneath. He held his breath as she dutifully applied the remedy, drawing circles against his skin in order to massage the cream into it. She was thorough, dedicating time to his ear and eyelid before moving down to his neck, pausing only very briefly before moving the sheet aside to expose his chest. Mortified he tried to remember how it looked like. He avoided gazing upon himself as much as possible when unclothed, the sight of his deformity repulsive even after so many years. But Lady Isobel didn't seem to have such compunction. Her touch never wavered though it became gentler, more a caress.

It was heady, to have such skin contact after years of being touch-starved. The pain blurred away into nothing and his world narrowed to the feeling of Lady Isobel's hands on his chest, pressing firmly against his hardened skin, her voice telling him he was going to be alright, that he was so brave and so strong. To his shame he found himself unable to contain little sounds of pleasure as she ran her hands over his right flank, drawing the sheet dangerously low as she did so. It had to be a dream, he concluded. Some strange by-product of the pain, a fantasy plucked right out of his mind. It was felt incredibly real and laughingly fantastical at the same time and he decided not to fight it but rather to embrace it. Isobel's hands slid down his thigh beneath the sheet that her dream self dared not lower further than past his narrow hips, her modesty very in-keeping with what he knew of the real woman. He concentrated hard on the feeling, willing his mind to be able to recall the sheer pleasure of it from then on. It was deliciously overwhelming, the pain still lingering about his synapses mixing with the ecstasy of Isobel's fingers digging into his inner-thigh, coaxing the skin back to its supple state. But a moment later those fingers drew away and Dream-Isobel gasped, the sound barely reaching him over the roaring of his blood in his ears. Eventually, however, she took over her task again, thoroughly coating his right leg and arm with the paste till he was completely relaxed, excepting for a strange sort of strain or pressure around his groin.

"Come on, let us get you back to bed. The floor's too hard and I need to do your back."

Dream-Isobel was as enchantingly-bossy as the real thing, which delighted him. He let her lead him back to the bed, uncaring when the sheet slid off his body completely. There was something strangely comforting about being nude in front of someone again, even if it was just a dream. That level of vulnerability, of intimacy, was almost intoxicating. He settled himself somehow uncomfortably on his belly in the bed, Lady Isobel climbing in after him, taking care to brush his hair aside to bare his back completely, her hands immediately going to his shoulders to rub the healing paste in.

"You're... you're uncut."

Her voice was soft, but not as hesitant as he would have expected and a sideways glance at her face told him she was not blushing. He couldn't imagine anyone educated by Olenna Tyrell did so easily.

"I am. But it helps that people think otherwise. Makes them underestimate me, makes them think I'm less of a man."

Dream-Isobel nodded, pausing briefly when his right hand settled atop her left thigh, nails slightly scratching the flimsy fabric of her skirt. She did not remove it, though, so he let it explore. To be touch felt incredible, but to have his touch welcomed was somehow even better.

"So how much of the story of your origins is true? Where you born in Essos at all?"

"Not even close. My father was the youngest son of a minor bannerman of house Serrett in the Westerlands. Having no inheritance to speak of he set out to make his fortune through less than reputable means. Finally, he got caught after he killed the squire of Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and he was given the choice to die or swear an oath to the Night's Watch. My father chose the Watch and became one of its brothers. Didn't take him long to break almost every one of the promises he'd made, including the forsaking of women. He raped my mother, a wildling, while out on a border scout. Nine months later she left me in front of the iron gates of Castle Black, to die or be taken in. The Maester took pity on me and let me in, and eventually the brothers figured out whose bastard I was. My father managed to cajole them into forgiving his transgression and allowing me to be raised in a nearby village. It must not have been easy. I used to think it proved how much he loved me."

He paused, snaking an arm around his Dream-Isobel's waist, seeking her warmth and comfort. He did not like to remember his past often but it was almost cathartic to tell the story to this kind apparition while she gently massaged his back and every now and then paused to stroke the exposed side of his face.

"One day he left, escaped the Night's Watch. He picked me up, told me we were going on a great adventure. I felt so happy that he hadn't left without me I could have followed him to the ends of the world. We sailed to Essos, arriving to the port city of Myr. There my father sold me to a sorcerer called Zoso, a mean-spirited soul that delighted in my suffering. He beat me almost daily and forced me to learn a trade to finance his magical pursuits. I learned to spin, Myrish textiles being highly sought-after, and dreamed of making enough money to buy my freedom."

Sensing his Dream-Isobel had finished with his back he used the arm hooked around her waist to bring her down next to him. There was a faint glimmer of fear in her eyes, some incredibly life-like reaction his mind had concocted up, and so he ran a hand through her hair to show her he did not mean her harm.

"Eventually my master bought another slave, a lively girl named Milah. She'd been born into slavery, unlike me, and was stronger than I was. I fell for her and I thought she did for me. She soon grew pregnant and begged me to run away with her but I was terrified of being found out. Runaway slaves are killed and it wouldn't have mattered that Milah was pregnant. I was close to being able to buy our freedom, but not that of the child. My master then proposed to me a deal: if I could get him a rare ingredient that grew in the abandoned ruins of Old Valyria he'd accept the money I had in payment for my freedom and that of Milah and our child."

Isobel made a faint sound of distress and moved closer to him in the bed.

"The Stone men."

"I was almost in the clear when they ambushed me. I had gotten the herb I'd come from and was in my boat on the way back to Myr. They came out of nowhere. I escaped with my life because they had trouble swimming due to their low mobility but one of them had grabbed my ankle and it had been enough. I returned to my master's house without the herb and as good as dead. Milah was terrified of me, of being anywhere near me, and angry that I had doomed us all. She gave birth to our child and was gone three months later, having struck some sort of mutually-beneficial relationship with a sailor from Braavos. She was gone and I could not hold my child, my babe, out of fear I would infect him. I worked harder at my trade than ever before, but no one would buy my trade, knowing of my condition. My master threw me out eventually, but I went to plead for his mercy the next day, for a chance to be close to my son. I was in time to catch the sight of the sorcerer throwing my son's intestines into the fire, part of some strange, depraved ritual."

Dream-Isobel made a wet sniffing sound and wrapped her arms and legs around him, enveloping him in warmth.

"I killed the sorcerer and buried my child. I wanted to die after that. But my boy, my Baelfire, deserved better. He was such a bright child, such a pure soul. He would have done so much good if he'd been allowed to grow up and flourish. I became determined to fulfil his destiny instead. It motivated me to travel far and wide to find a cure. It's driven me forward for years. I've thought about nothing else, wanted nothing else. At least, till you."

The dream was turning depressing so he let go of the memories of the past to focus on the warm woman in his arms. Dream-Isobel was incredibly life-like in her mannerisms and reactions. He would have thought a fantasy would welcome eagerly his advances but this Isobel was somewhat shy, willing but skittish. He held her tighter, one hand combing through her hair while the other pressed her hips against his. It was then that he became aware of his erection, snuggly cradled between Isobel's legs.

"You've robbed me of my concentration. Years upon years of careful planning, of scheming and waiting and skilfully moving pieces across a board and all it takes is a pair of pretty blue eyes and a smile to put everything in jeopardy."

The words came out harsh, almost accusatory, but he lessened the blow by nuzzling against her neck and pressing his lips against the gentle slope of her shoulder. Dream-Isobel gradually melted against him, tilting her head to the side to give him more access to her neck. Once more he was blown away by how much better if felt to touch her than to be touched by her, especially when she gasped or made mewling noises, her legs moving restlessly against his, her body growing hungry for something. Suddenly desperate for it he kissed her, marvelling at how he could almost taste a hint of lemon and vervain. He swung his body forward so he could straddle her as he kissed her, feeling like a virgin boy with his first woman. Isobel was deliciously soft and pliant beneath him, tentative in her advances but increasingly enthusiastic as she grew used to the touch of his tongue against hers. His fingers, blissfully, found the fastenings of her gown and he thank the heavens for the simple, flirty fashion of Highgarden. Isobel’s dress was ridiculously easy to open, and soon enough one of his hands was closing around a round, soft breast. Belatedly he realised it was his right one, the greyscale-infected one, and moved to pull away but she protested and pressed his hand closer. With almost frantic purpose he let his hands roam everywhere, seeking out every place that he could touch to bring her pleasure. He thrusted against her, his cock pressed tightly against her pelvis but it felt too good to be embarrassed to be rutting against her like some animal or adolescent boy.

"I don't even care anymore about the secrets you have with Littlefinger, the meetings in the Godswood and the little whispers you've shared. Whatever betrayal there was is a price worth paying for you."

Dream-Isobel froze, back arched and breathing laboured. There was only the barest sting at the reminder of her treachery, quickly overshadowed by the feeling of Isobel's legs wrapping around his hips, her body seeking out more and more friction. He kissed her harder then, the feeling of his impending orgasm almost foreign to him. Almost in a panic he brought his right hand between them, his fingers exploring the outside of her cunt, trying to find the place that he could touch to send her over the edge. She was slippery and warm and wonderful and with great concentration and the past shreds of his patience he slowly wound her up tighter and tighter till she gasped, hands fisting in his hair and almost tearing it out as she came. His own orgasm was pathetically easy to achieve after that, though he couldn't bring himself to regret it one bit.

He collapsed beside her in the afterglow, his limbs feeling pleasantly weak and heavy. He gathered his Dream-Isobel close, wondering if the freckles in the valley of her breasts were just his imagination or of the real Lady Isobel had similar small dark golden dots decorating that strip of skin between her breasts. She seemed strangely pensive and sombre all of a sudden, and it did not please him at all.

"Tyrion Lannister did not kill Joffrey."

She said it quietly but with certainty.

"Of course he didn't. He's not stupid enough to serve him poison publicly. Littlefinger did it and framed it."

"He didn't do it. Not alone, at least. It was my grandmother and I. We did it, he simply helped us. That's why we met with him in the Godswood."

It was like being doused with cold water. The dream feeling popped like a bubble. Isobel's confession, so unexpected and out of place, could be nothing but real. There was no vivid hallucination in his arms but rather a very warm and very real woman, her dress undone and gaping open still and her hair mussed by his hands. It wasn't a dream. And his sweet, gentle Isobel was a murderer.

"I couldn't let her marry him. He was a monster. He would have ruined the Seven Kingdoms and the gods only know what he would have done to Maergery. We couldn't let him, grandmother and I. So we decided that if Maergery wanted to be a queen so much she could be Tommen's. Even under the shadow of his mother's control he's a thousand times a better choice. Preparing poisons is no different than making healing ointments. I've always had a talent for it anyway. It was relatively easy to distil one, once Lord Baelish procured a key ingredient I was missing from a contact he had in Dorne. It was grandmother that put it in Joffrey's cup afterwards. I didn't think Tyrion would be blamed, I thought that by using a poison from Essos I'd be able to cast suspicion towards Oberyn Martell, who'd jump at the chance of a trial by combat. He's been wanting to face the Mountain for years, after all."

Lady Isobel had never seemed as real to him as she did half-naked in his bed confessing to murder. Her light was still there, as obvious as the first time he'd seen it. But there were shadows too, a darkness he'd pretended wasn't there before.

"Now Oberyn Martell is dead and though I would poison Joffrey a thousand times to protect my cousin I don't want Tyrion to die. He's a good man. He's the only Lannister worth saving."

He made the decision there and then. And though it aligned with his plans perfectly that was not why he made it at all.

"I'll smuggle him out. I'll find a way. But I can't do it without it being traced back to me. When Tyrion goes, so will I."

Isobel smiled sadly.

"Across the Narrow Sea, to see if your investment in the welfare of Daenerys Stormborn has paid off, I presume. To see if she is as they say." The shock must have shown in his face, prompting a proud smile out of her. "You thought I didn't know."

A heavy silence settled over them after that, filled with everything that would likely remain forever unsaid between them. Finally, reluctantly, Rumplestiltskin stood up and went towards his wardrobe.

"I have no time to lose, I'm afraid. Time is of the essence if I mean to pull this off. And you must go back to your quarters at once. No one must suspect you. One of my birds will guide you through the tunnels, as I suspect guided you here before."

By the time he turned around she was fully dressed and had packed up whatever she'd brought with her to treat him. They looked at each other intensely each trying to memorize the look of the other. Finally, Rumplestiltskin bowed. It was not his usual courtly gesture but something much deeper in meaning and simple in execution.

"Farewell, my Lady."

"Belle, if you please. For when we meet again."

He almost smiled at that. What a pretty lie.

"Then call Rumple. For when we meet again."


End file.
